


only blue or black days

by Highsmith (quimtessence)



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Bad Flirting, Blow Jobs, Consensual Underage Sex, Explicit Sexual Content, First Time, HarringrovePornathon, HarringrovePornathon 2019, HarringrovePornathon Day 3, M/M, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Public Sex, Season/Series 02, Shower Sex, Size Kink, Smut, The Gate Is Closed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-27
Updated: 2019-06-27
Packaged: 2020-05-20 10:52:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,212
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19375240
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quimtessence/pseuds/Highsmith
Summary: Steve's shower is still running right behind them. Neither are moving. This has passed so beyond surreal Steve can barely see the exit ramp anymore."Want me to, Harrington?"(Written for HarringrovePornathon Day 3!)





	only blue or black days

**Author's Note:**

> _Finally_ got the time and inclination to write something for #HarringrovePornathon 2019. Pure PWP pretty much. Title from "Someone New" by Hozier.

Two days after they set fire to the tunnels, school is surprisingly normal. Steve is immediately suspicious, but it doesn't last long, what with the lack of weird shit and all.

(The Gate is closed. For good. Hopper said so. Steve's not going to overthink this shit.)

It's Wednesday, after all, and Wednesdays are habitually boring, if only because they're close but not close enough to the weekend. Boring and antsy. The dull throb of pain around Steve's cheekbones and nose and eyes is almost an afterthought now.

His face might be all messed up—again!—but people in Hawkins seem dead set to make it the most boring Wednesday in the history of the town, even if that means no one giving him even a second look. Everyone, that is, except for Hargrove.

Because it has to be Billy Fucking Hargrove, of fucking course.

Climbing the rope is torturous. Steve has learnt to expect tears and rope burns, if not a sprained ankle, by the end of it, and he'd like nothing more than to skip out on it altogether, but Hargrove is decidedly and unambiguously _in his way_ , however much Steve tries to sidestep the landmines of Billy Hargrove's persona.

"Do you mind?" he asks, seemingly uninterested, with just the right touch of vaguely annoyed. The Steve Harrington Special.

Gym is the only class they share, for which Steve would generally be thankful, but that also seems to mean that Hargrove has to make the most of it if he wants to piss him off enough for Steve to lash out. Has to make up for Steve's not being at his constant disposal to torment and annoy. All the more now, he thinks.

Hargrove's between him and his own rope, Coach suspiciously and conveniently somewhere else. "For you, Harrington?" He looks him up and down lazily, cocky smirk firmly in place, before saying, "Nah. I don't _mind_."

Hargrove and playing games. Some things don't change, but Steve knows a little more now about planting his feet.

They hit the showers shortly after. Tommy's being a butt, as per usual, all _Did you trip and fall again?_ and _Your delicate skin need some lovin' there, Harrington?_ and _Ain't Wheeler gonna kiss and make it better for you, buddy?_

Steve wants to punch him in his douchebag face so badly he accidentally turns the water all the way hot and nearly scalds himself the first few seconds he spends under the nuzzles. That prompts more ribbing from Tommy, but no real reaction from Hargrove other than some faint snickering he shares with the rest of the team. If it means the guy's ready to let it go already, Steve's more than fine with that.

Which doesn't go a long way towards explaining how they end up the only stragglers after everyone's already washed and changed and headed for lunch. Even Coach yells out for them to get a move on, but without actually sticking around to make sure the locker rooms empty out.

"So are you, like, the babysitter?" Hargrove asks from somewhere behind him, sounding beyond sceptical.

It's a little surreal. Steve's still got shampoo in his hair. Hargrove's been using the shower head next to his, probably on purpose for whatever reason, and his voice echoes oddly in the mostly empty locker room, too close and too far away all at the same time.

Not about to turn around, Steve instead focuses on getting clean and getting out. In the end, he can't help saying, "Excuse you?"

Hargrove huffs out a frustrated sound that's only partially muffled by the running water. "Are you babysitting those dorks?" he snaps. As if Steve's being dim on purpose.

It's not on purpose; Steve just doesn't fucking get it. Doesn't get where this is heading and how much of a trap it is. "Yeah?" Nonplussed.

"Why?"

Finally wiping the last of the shampoo and soap off his face, Steve turns around to face him. "Jesus, what's with you, Hargrove?"

No response. Typical.

In fact, Hargrove's staring at the wall over Steve's shoulder as he leans his head back to rinse out his hair under the jet of water. Steve blinks. Huffs. Figures he might as well get a move on. The faster he showers and gets dressed, the faster he can get as far away as possible from this asshole and the possibility of getting his face punched in some more.

Only. Hargrove's being quiet without the threat of something else lurking just around the corner, his eyes closed to rinse his hair out properly. Steve doesn't mean to stare, not that closely, not like a creep. Only it's an odd and somewhat timely opportunity to _look_ at Hargrove, though, without the guy about to snap in his face about it.

His eyelashes are too long. His shoulders too broad. His waist too thick. Steve swallows. It's all a little too much. He dives under the water all over again, until his head is completely submerged, eyes closed tightly against the room.

When he leaves the cocoon of water to open his own eyes, Hargrove's are already on him. It should be startling.

"Were you out to the vote?" he asks, completely out of the blue. It should at least serve to break the weird tension; it doesn't.

Steve doesn't know what prompts him to say, "My birthday's only next month." A little defensive. Like he owes Hargrove anything close to an explanation. Whatever.

He only half-turns to finish washing. Even formulates a plan to make his get-away quick and painless. He hears shuffling behind him and Hargrove's shower turning off, and he figures that's that. Only it ends up being pretty pointless to sidestep anything here at all because Hargrove's, once again, making things _difficult_.

"Get out of my way, Hargrove." He could strike now and worry about it later, but. But.

"Or what?" he smirks, unbothered.

"Jesus, man. Can't you just let it go? You kicked my ass Monday night, OK? I get it. You did it! Now can you just let it the fuck go?"

"Why should I, pretty boy?"

"This crap again?" Steve mutters under his breath. Apparently still loud enough for Hargrove to hear, because he snaps, "You got a problem with that?"

This is dangerous. Not because he's anticipating another fight. At least, that's not all there is to it, because a fight is _always_ around the corner, especially when Hargrove's too much in his space for comfort. But beneath the surface of simply sidestepping another punch-up there's the threat of something _more_ , and Steve has to wonder what's _worse_ than another fight. Worse than cracked, bloody knuckles and Hargrove above him and in his face.

The steady fall of water. The seeming quiet from beyond the showers. They're alone, and it's dangerous, a visceral feeling Steve can't seem to shake. Dangerous in a way he can't _quite_ name. Something about the picture Hargrove makes as he's hovering over him about to land a hit, a hit that never comes.

"Are you going to hit me, Hargrove?" He whispers it just loudly enough to be heard over the water. They're close enough a whisper's just enough.

Steve's shower is still running right behind them. Neither are moving. This has passed so beyond surreal Steve can barely see the exit ramp anymore.

"Want me to, Harrington?"

And the words are there, and they're the right words, and Steve should know what they mean. He swallows, suddenly parched. The irony of that isn't lost on him.

Hargrove licks his lips, and Steve's eyes snap to like a dog being offered a treat. It should be pathetic, only Hargrove's staring at the line of Steve's throat with blown pupils and a faint blush gracing the bridge of his nose.

When he glances down Hargrove's a sight. Already chubbing up, half-hard. Sticky. This is doing it for him in a way Steve wouldn't have ever imagined, making his own cock hard. He knows it's already faintly throbbing, that little spot underneath the cockhead that's just aching for a touch all he can focus on for a moment, just before the pre-come bubbling up from the slit of Hargrove's cock all but takes his breath away.

Something about Billy Hargrove being hard for Steve Harrington sends his head spinning around the block and back. It makes him all giddy and hot inside.

Glancing back up, Steve wonders if this is going to turn to shit. If Hargrove is going to turn on a dime for no apparent reason.

When Steve stares back there's a glazed look in his eyes, the skin around them feverish and tight. His breaths are ragged. His words come out rough and uneven. "Too much, baby?"

He's all the way hard now, thick and shiny, the head hovering next to Steve's belly button. By the time he realises it's too much, Steve's knees are already hitting the hard concrete of the shower floor. If Hargrove's about to protest, it all fizzles out when Steve reaches for him.

He takes hold of Hargrove's hips more to steady himself than to explore. He wouldn't have much patience for exploring right now anyway. This is out into the open. This is something from which they can never go back. They'll be time for exploring later, _maybe_ , but for right now his thumbs are against Hargrove's hip bones, and he makes lazy little circles for something to do while he musters the courage to not get up and walk out in embarrassment.

Hargrove gasps at the first touch of Steve's tongue to his body, a lick an inch from one of his own thumbs dragging against thin skin. He then rakes his teeth along where he's just licked, slow and steady, Hargrove's ensuing hiss sweet to his ears. And he knows it's a tease, too little that feels like too much, but Steve's not ashamed of it, not when he follows it up with a tentative slide of his half-open lips up the underside of his cock.

And it is too much. It _should be_ too much. Hargrove's got a big dick, too thick to fit comfortably inside a willing mouth. Steve almost chokes on his own spit just licking at the underside of it. He can almost sense Hargrove's sharp want in the air between them, the tension that's like a spring about to snap through his entire body, but Steve might just snap, too. He takes him down before he does something stupid.

He tastes overwhelmingly soapy, but beneath the artificial first taste he gives way to something musky, human, clean skin and blood pumping underneath it, heavy on Steve's tongue, stretching at the seams of his mouth. He's swallowing compulsively before he's fully aware he's doing it, and he knows he should back off just enough to take a breather, but it's a good stretch, like sore muscles after a workout.

It shouldn't come as a surprise that Hargrove's hips buck into the pressure, the suction of Steve's mouth. It's brief, and it almost chokes him, but then a ragged breath from above is followed by Hagrove's tentative hands palming at the sides of his head, tender and oddly comforting.

It's all the encouragement Steve needs to take another inch down and another and another, Hargrove's cockhead flirting with the opening of his throat, another type of tease altogether. It's just another dangerous thing. The type of thing Steve Harrington does now. The type of thing that takes his breath away.

From there it's barely anything at all to swallow around Hargrove's cock. To feel him down his throat and filling his mouth up. Hands scramble at the top of his head, not pushing, but not tentative either.

It _is_ too much. It's not enough. Hargrove's hip bones quiver, an arrow about to shoot, and it's enough to have him pulling back from his cock with great, heaving gulps.

That means Hargrove's cock pulses in Steve's fist instead of down his throat as he shoots over Steve's knuckles and a little on the shower floor between his curling toes, but most of it ends up across Hargrove's belly in sloppy lines of white Steve wants to lick right off.

Then he drags Steve back up with careful palms under his armpits. When Steve's standing on his own again, he quirks the corner of his mouth just so, as if to say, _not done with you yet_ , and touches his lips to Steve's where Steve's are red and tender where they're not purple and sore from Monday night.

His tongue is hot when it licks the inside of Steve's cheek and behind his teeth. It drags against his own tongue and starts a shiver which ends at the tips of Steve's toes.

Panting, Steve breaks the kiss enough to breathe out, "You gonna get me off, Hargrove?" It's a whisper almost in the space between them.

And Hargrove smiles, as if to say, _I know your secret_ , only he doesn't say that, not at all. He looks Steve straight in the eyes, and reaches for Steve's cock between their bellies, Steve's entire body stuttering at the touch, and then says, finally, "Whatever you want, pretty boy." Like it's a fucking promise.

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this from 9 PM to 2 AM, and it probably showed, but I hope someone enjoys it anyway! <3
> 
> I [tumble](https://rhubarbdreams.tumblr.com) again, but I'm mostly on Discord as **Highsmith#6255**. If you wanna chat or whatever.


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